


How It Really Happened

by infiniterider



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniterider/pseuds/infiniterider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's personal journal entry, detailing the true story of how he found out Sherlock was alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How It Really Happened

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the events of "The Empty Hearse". Spoilers to "The Reinbach Fall" (naturally).

14 July 2014

It's been over a year since the news first broke that Sherlock Holmes had "returned" from the dead.  And now, for the first time, I can break my silence about what really happened.  Sherlock said it wasn't safe to do so before, not even in this, my private hand-written journal.  But he told me yesterday that I could put it all down if I wanted to. 

"I know you've been itching to get it out.  Just... not where Mrs. Hudson can see."  And of course, I never would.  Not for all the world.

I wrote that I can finally break my silence about what really happened.  I don't mean how he really did it.  I mean, what really happened between Sherlock and me.  (By the way, if you want to know how he did fake his death, check J. Anderson's book.  He has published all the theories his group (The Empty Hearse) came up with, and the truth as told to him by Sherlock.)

For six months, I mourned the death of Sherlock Holmes.  If this is being read, then I assume my older journals have been read as well, so I won't repeat all the agonies and emotional upheavals that I went through during those months.  I won't detail how horrible it was to have my grief compounded by the slanderous articles and press releases that were all the rage at the time.  Put mildly, I was absolutely miserable.  Some days, I think the only thing that kept me from ending it myself was the tiny sliver of hope - well... not even really hope.  Just the craziest off chance that _somehow_ he would do as I said at his grave site, and stop being dead.  That, and the horror of having seen him jump with my own eyes.  Of having felt his wrists with no life beating through.  Seen his blood, and the

Okay no, I'm not going into it.  Even now, thinking about it makes me feel sick and sad.  All I'm driving at is, I couldn't really go through with anything so drastic because I wouldn't want to inflict that kind of pain on anyone else.  Thank God I never got so completely down in the dumps that considerations like that ceased to matter.  But I was indescribably miserable all the same.

Then, six months and four days after Sherlock died, my fervent prayers came true.

I received a small parcel at my office address.  I'd gotten a job at a small medical office (as I've written about before).  Something like what I'd tried to do when I met Sarah, but actually successful this time.  It's much easier to sleep at night when you aren't medical examiner for the world's only Consulting Detective.

Inside the little padded envelope was a card with an address typed on it, and a small key.  I got a strange feeling when I saw it.  Since Sherlock had died, my life had been almost entirely devoid of adventure or mystery.  The most trouble I'd gotten into was the odd row now and then when someone recognized me from the news and tried to engage me about the "truth" about my friend.  I suppose I convinced a lot more people that I was "gay for Sherlock" because of how fiercely I defended is memory.  I actually saw an article in the bloody Sun warning people not to mess with Sherlock's "widower" or risk a broken jaw.  Well.  Like I said before, if I can't convince them I'm not gay, at least I (apparently) established the idea that I was the dominant partner.

But aside from putting down a few hecklers, being passed by the occasional cab and looking for my keys, excitement and intrigue were a thing of the past.  So receiving a key and a random address (no business name had been typed) evoked some of the same feelings that I used to get when we would get an unexpected ring at Baker Street, or an inquiry from the website.

I tried to shake it off - automatically associating anything odd with Sherlock was nonsense.  I doubted Mycroft had anything to do with it, either.  I hadn't been invited on any surprise luxury car rides since before Sherlock's death.  Mycroft wasn't the type to be cryptic in this way.

I put the key in my pocket and looked up the address.  A bank.  Okay.  I had appointments most of the afternoon, but I knew I could reschedule one easily enough and nip off early to see what the key might be about.  I did so, and by three o'clock I was in a cab on my way to Regent's Bank.

I knew the key had to be for a safe deposit box - what else would you do with a key in a bank? - so I asked a teller to be let in.  "May we have your account number, sir?"

"I... don't have that with me," I answered the teller.

"That's alright.  Last name, please?"

"Watson," I said, nervously wondering if I would be stopped.  Maybe it was a key to a locker in the basement or something more obscure.  "John," I said when the young man looked up expectantly.

"And birth date?"

I gave it to him. And he smiled and nodded."Please take a seat, Doctor, and I'll have someone take you in shortly."

I took a seat in the waiting area, and spent the next ten or so minutes wondering how the hell someone had managed to open a bank account in my name without my knowing it.  I'd seen my share of odd things, seemingly impossible privacy breaches. But of the three people I knew who could probably get away with it, two were dead, and _none_ would have any reason to do it in the first place.

"Doctor Watson?"  I looked up to see a young woman smiling at me.  "I'll take you to your safe deposit box now, sir."

"Thank you."

Her multi-watt smile faltered a little.  "Are you all right?  Can I get you tea, or-"

"No, no," I said, forcing a smile.  I felt somewhat light-headed, and I thought I must look pale to the bank manager.  "I'm alright, thank you," I said. I followed her to the back of the bank.  We were buzzed through a security door and entered the area with the safe deposit boxes.  She led me to box 479, and turned our keys together like they do in films.  The manager pulled out my box and left me alone with it in a private room.

With some trepidation, I opened the long box and looked inside.  The box contained only a single item.  It was an envelope of standard size.  White.  No stamp or other markings except a typed message on the front of the envelope.  It read:

DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU ARE **_ALONE_**

Naturally, I wanted to rip it open right away.  Technically, I was alone in the private room, but I knew that wasn't enough.  There were cameras there.  The bank manager might return any moment.  No.  I forced myself to wait.  I shoved the envelope into an inner pocket, locked the case, and called the manager back.

The cab ride back to my flat seemed to take ages.  It was agony sitting there, with the letter against my chest, crinkling whenever I shifted, just _begging_ to be opened.  What could it be?  Why should I be told to wait until I was alone? 

I practically ran into my flat, locking and bolting the door behind me.  I sat down on the sofa and pulled the letter out.  I looked at it carefully, but I couldn't tell anything from it.  There wasn't  even the ghost of a shadow that could show what might have been written inside.  The envelope was moderately thick, indicating that there were at least four or five pages in side.  I laughed at myself.  I'd been practicing making guesses about people based on little things I saw - all to myself, of course - and I wasn't anywhere near as good at it as Sherlock had been.  I saw heavy paper, plain white envelope, four to five pages inside.  He probably could have told me where the paper was manufactured, how many hands had touched it, and that the author had eaten eggs and sausage for breakfast.

I began to open it, then paused.  **_ALONE_**.  I hid the envelope under a book, then made sure all my windows were fastened and my curtains drawn.  Then I went back to the sofa and opened the envelope.

There was a blank sheet of paper inside, folded around several more sheets.  Security measures - no wonder none of the ink had shown through.  I removed the outer sheet and gasped sharply.  _Sherlock!_   It was his handwriting.  He didn't write by hand as a rule, but I had lived with him long enough to recognize his writing from his small notes, and his scribbling on his "connection wall".

I held the letter in my hands, staring at it, watching it waver thanks to my trembling, and to the tears that had suddenly sprung to my eyes.  I gritted my teeth and brushed the tears from my eyes, then forced myself to actually open the letter.

I can remember the contents as clearly as if the letter were in front of my face right now.  I made sure of it, using Sherlock's "mind palace" technique.  I wonder how he would feel if he knew that his letters are the only contents of the giant wall-safe, in the mind cottage of John H. Watson.

The letter began this way:

***

My Dearest John,

     I'm sorry.

***

At those words, I tossed the letter away from me and burst into tears.  I'd felt so much heartache and misery after his death, and I'd been both sad and furious at having been abandoned by him as well.  It seemed that he was apologizing for all of it.  I could practically hear his voice, and the sight of his handwriting just made it all so wrenching.  Sherlock wasn't one for apologies in general, so it made this one all the more powerful to me. 

Right away - well, when I could - I called Mary and cancelled our date.  We'd been seeing each other about three weeks by then, and she already knew I had my ups and downs because of Sherlock.  She was patient and kind as ever, and asked if I wanted company or if I needed space.

"Space," I answered.  "But I'll ring you tomorrow, I promise."

"Okay."

"I'm _so_ sorry, it's just-"

"No, you don't have to explain, John," she said.  "Take what time you need, okay?"

"Thank you.  You're an angel."

She laughed, told me to call any time if I changed my mind about company, then rang off.  You can see why I love her.  She’s never stopped understanding me.  Never resented the fact that I have a close friend as well as her in my life. 

When I'd cleared my obligations for the evening, I went back to the sofa and picked up the letter again.  Here it is in its entirety.

***

My Dearest John,

     I'm sorry.  I wanted that to be the very first thing I said to you.  It’s not enough, I know it isn't.  But I'm sure there aren't enough ways to apologise in our language, and possibly not in any other language on earth, that would be equal to what I've done to you.  I'm sorry for the hurt I caused you.  I'm sorry for what you had to see, and for all you suffered because of it.  I'm sorry I had to leave you in that way.

***

You may imagine, I had quite a cry about this.  I think, overall, it took me no less than an hour to read the full letter.  When I'd pulled myself together for the second time, I read this:

***

     I'm also sorry for what I'm about to tell you.  It may make you hate me, but I'll have to take that chance.  I hope you're alone, and I hope you're sitting down.  No, I know you're alone.  I hope you're sitting down.  And I'm sorry.

     I'm not dead.

***

I can tell you, reading those words was indescribable to me.  I'll try as best I can to do so, though.  I remember gripping the papers tightly, clutching them to my chest.  I felt like my entire chest was trying to shrink in and crush me.  I couldn't breathe, although I could hear myself gasping in huge, gulping breaths.  I remember my heart pounding, and my thoughts turning immediately to Sherlock's tearful phone call to me.  Watching him fall, and seeing his blood flowing all over the street.

Joy. Rage.  Disbelief.  Hurt.  I felt them all swirling inside my brain in an insane frenzy.  I'm not sure if I cried, though certainly I must have.  But after a while, I looked back at the letter, crushed between my clenched fists.  Frantically, I smoothed it out, flattening it down on the coffee table.  I read the words again and again before I could continue.

***

     I'm not dead.

     I'm sorry.  Before you burn this letter, I hope you will read on.  I'll try to explain my reasons, and I hope you'll understand.  Once you read everything, if you won't forgive me, then I won't blame you.

***

At this point in the letter, there were about six lines crossed out, apparently where Sherlock had tried several different ways of telling me the truth.  When he finally settled on a start, he wrote the following:

***

     You were right.  I never researched you.  My observations and deductions weren't magic tricks, they were real.  But I needed to let Moriarty destroy me completely.  I knew that he would never stop until he believed beyond any shadow of doubt that he had made good on his threat and burned the heart out of me.

     To help him, Mycroft fed him bits of my past that he later used to destroy my reputation.  It was Mycroft's idea to forewarn you, to make it seem as though what he fed Moriarty hadn't been calculated, and - in a way - to try to prepare you for what might happen to me. Together, we reasoned through all of the possible outcomes of a confrontation between Moriarty and me, coded them and waited for the inevitable interview.  When the time came, Mycroft arranged the phone call about Mrs. Hudson to get you away, and I met Moriarty on the roof.

     I didn't want to do this to you.  I tried other alternatives, but Moriarty was a clever man, and he forced my hand.  He had hired gunmen watching Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you.  Naturally, I knew he wasn't bluffing.  He'd have killed all of you without a thought.  And there was my choice.  Throw myself off a building, or let three of my closest friends - seventy-five percent of my entire complement of friends - be murdered.

     When I realized that there was no alternative, I asked Moriarty for a moment alone, and sent a message to Mycroft to set one of our plans into motion.  I tried one last time to keep from having to hurt you.  But when I threatened Moriarty, he told me that as long as he was alive, I had a chance to save you.  Then he shot himself in the head right in front of me.  I can tell you honestly, it would have been much more satisfying to see that if it hadn't meant death to any hopes of sparing you great pain.

     There was an end to it.  I had to go through with it, or watch you gunned down, and know that _I'd_ killed you. The rest, you know.  We spoke, and I made sure you stayed away from the building so you wouldn't see that I'd fallen safely.  The rest was window dressing - very convincing ruses to be sure you believed I was dead.

     I'm sure you want to know why I didn't contact you sooner.  I had no doubt that Moriarty's agents had been instructed to watch you all closely.  For them to be convinced that I was dead, you all had to be convinced.  But _you_ most of all John, because he knew what you meant to me.  Of the three of you, he knew that I would be the most likely to reveal myself to you if my death had been faked.  _Any_ sign that you knew the truth might result in your death.  So I kept it from you as long as I could.

     Mycroft thought it would be better not to tell you at all, but you know how highly I regard his advice.  Enough time has passed now, and no one would think it strange if you aren't grieving as deeply as you might have been months ago.  So I devised a way to get news to you undetected, and he here we are.

     I'm sorry, John.  I know what you must be feeling.  You may deny me that, but I haven't forgotten how I felt when I found out that the Woman was still alive.  I _hated_ her from the depth of my soul! And I loved _you_ for demanding that she tell me the truth.  It's why I wept on that rooftop, John.  I knew what I would be doing to you, and that you didn't deserve it.  I hope that, if you do hate me now, you may learn to forgive me one day.  In my defense, I had no other choice, and I _did_ tell you the truth without being forced to.

     Now, I'm going to hurt you again, and I apologize for this too.  The danger isn't over.  Moriarty's network is deep and far-reaching, and he has influence over things even from the grave.  It may be years before we see each other again.  I have to stop him completely, and I have to stay "dead" to do it.  I'm binding you to secrecy, my friend.  As you value my life, and the lives of Mrs. Hudson, and "Greg" and yourself, don't tell **_anyone_** what you know.  It will be difficult, I know that well.  But you're a soldier.  And you're my closest friend.  I know I can rely on you not to break my confidence, even if you can't entirely forgive me for what I've done to you.

Yours Ever,

S. H.

P.S.  You _will_ forgive me, won't you?  Leave me a message in the box, or...

***

And here, the lines were crossed out and re-written no less than ten times.

***

Leave a message for me in the box.  And when you're done with it, burn this letter and flush it away.

S.H.

***

I sat still on the couch after I'd finished reading.  I must have looked like a complete mess, sitting there with my hands trembling, tears streaming down my face, and my chest heaving.  At first, my thoughts were scattered and jumbled, with a few themes "louder" than others.  Naturally, they were the fact that Sherlock was alive, and that that he had deceived me, and that he might still be in danger.  I didn't know how to feel.  I was angry, that was certain.  But I was unbelievably happy at the same time. 

My friend, my _best_ friend, was alive!  I didn't love the fact that I'd been lied to, but I couldn't deny that his explanation made sense.  If he'd told me a week after, or even a month, who knows what kind of unconscious clues I might have given to any potential assassins?  I thought, deep down, that he was right and he couldn't have done anything else.  He'd sacrificed his life - his normal life in London, and his reputation -  _and_ he'd risked losing the good opinion of everyone he cared about (except Mycroft, whose opinion I was never sure he actually cared about in the first place).  And the many scratchings and false starts in the letter told me that the confession had been difficult for him.

I looked at the letter again.  Read and re-read the words "I'm not dead."  Re-read his apology - his many apologies, over and over again.  Laughed at his use of quotes around Greg's name, as if he still weren't convinced that Greg and I were serious, and that Lestrade's first name wasn't actually "Detective".  Finally, I locked myself in the bathroom, committed each page to memory and locked them away, and then I set the letter on fire. 

I watched it burn, feeling my eyes water as his handwriting was quickly obliterated. I had no idea when I would receive another message from him - or _if_ I would.   If he was in danger (which he must be if he was tracking down people who had worked for that maniac), then he might still be killed or badly injured even now, and I might never know.

I made up my mind that I would definitely send him a message through his safe deposit box, and I tried to figure out the best way to do it.  He had sent me a straightforward letter, but I had no idea what channels my message might have to go through to reach him.  For all I knew, the letter he sent had been written before he took his infamous fall, and then might have been sent later, when he felt safe enough to send it.

There were so many things I wanted to say to him,  so many questions I wanted to ask.  I wanted to tell him every single emotion I felt - pour out my hurt and anger and happiness to him.  But I decided in the end that brevity was probably the safest course.  I also decided that code would probably be best.  Such a code as I could come up with would probably be easy enough to decipher by potential enemies, but I thought it would be a good idea to try, anyway.  At least a casual observer wouldn't catch it.

I thought about what I should do for a bit, then sifted through the old newspaper I'd been meaning to throw away, and pulled one out.  Eventually, I found an article that would suit my needs.  The appropriateness of the subject struck me, too and I smiled as I altered it to my purposes.

\- - -

     "Further investigation of the Sherlock Holmes expose that was spearheaded by sensational journalist Kitty Riley has raised several questions that the journalist has been asked to address.  Officials are now asking when, during the course of her disposition of the alleged Richard Brooks, did the journalist take steps to verify the claims he made. 

     Several individuals who were familiar with the deceased amateur detective have come forward to refute the negative claims against him.  Principle among these is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard.  'In the five years that I've known Sherlock Holmes, I have _never_ known him to be anything but honest.  Even when it hurt.  I absolutely do _not_ accept the idea that he would commit a crime, and I will do everything I can to exonerate him.'

     Similar testimonials have poured in from many of the clients that claim they have been assisted by Sherlock Holmes in some previously un-solvable problem.  Our paper will continue to follow this report closely, and we'll be right here with all the details you need as the story breaks."

\- - -

In what I _would_ claim to be a stroke of genius on my part, but was actually done by one of Sherlock's clients in an early case, I took a straight pin and made a tiny hole in the first letter of every word I wanted.  I knew Sherlock would check it with his magnifying glass and when he did, he would see the following message in answer to his final question:

"Of course I do.  I will be right here with all you need."

I slipped the newspaper clipping into an envelope, then left it for the next day.  I didn't know who might be watching me, and I thought it might look odd me checking the safe deposit box twice in one day.  I spent the rest of the evening in a haze, just trying to process now I felt, I guess.  Next day, I canceled my morning appointments and went back to the bank to leave my message for Sherlock. 

After that, I tried to get back to normal.  I saw my patients in the afternoon, and I went out with Mary.  But all the while, thoughts of my resurrected friend swirled through my mind, so that even Mary noticed it.  She assumed it was because I'd been saddened by something the day before, and I didn't correct her (of course).  I'd no idea when, or if, I would hear from Sherlock again, and that did make me sad, so it wasn't exactly a lie.

As to when I would hear from Sherlock again, it wasn't until a full eight months later.  They were a difficult eight months, during which time I completely avoided everyone I knew from my time with Sherlock.  Many times, my hand reached for the phone, and I'd made up my mind to call someone - most often Mrs. Hudson.  But each time, I stopped myself.  I knew the temptation to tell her the truth would be far too great.  I couldn't betray Sherlock's trust, I _absolutely_ couldn't risk doing that.  But every conversation I imagined myself having with Mrs. Hudson somehow involved me blurting out "he's alive".

So, I avoided her.  I avoided all of them, even though I knew it wasn't exactly fair.  I felt awful about completely withdrawing from their lives, but I had already done so after Sherlock had died, out of my deep grief and my inability to see _anything_ related to Sherlock without sinking down into a horrible depression.  I simply kept up that impression, and kept my distance completely, willing to risk being hated by all of them rather than risk betraying Sherlock's trust in me.

The message I received, eight months after the first one, felt like a reward for my efforts.  I was ecstatic when I received a note card and a key in an envelope.  The message had sent me to the same bank, and I was again shown to the safe deposit boxes.  I opened the box when I was alone and looked inside eagerly.    There was a single note card inside, that had been folded up in a blank a page and tucked into an envelope.  It read:

***

     Thank you.  Still engaged.  Clever message.

***

I was inclined to be disappointed at first.  The note had been typed, and it was so much shorter than the first.  But of course, he'd had much more to say in his first message.  And who knew what the circumstances were now?  If he was still "engaged", it meant there might still be danger.  That, of course, started me worrying about him again. 

I tried to shut down all thoughts of the kind of danger he might be facing, and focused on the fact that he'd taken the time to compliment my code.  I'm sure I puffed up about that far too much, but receiving a genuine compliment on your intelligence from Sherlock Holmes was pretty damned amazing.

I took the card with me, destroyed it completely, and resumed my "business as usual" attitude.

My final message from Sherlock was almost a full year in coming.  I'd begun to fear the worst, and my mood dipped and rose frequently after the ninth month passed with no word.  At the same time that I began to really fear for Sherlock, I was growing more and more deeply attached to Mary.  Our relationship had certainly been the longest in my own personal history, and she was absolutely amazing.  I've gushed about her many times in these journals and I've spoken of how she encouraged me to go into practice on my own.  Well, my final message came to the address of my medical offices, about three weeks after I'd opened our doors.

Mary brought it in, commenting on the fact that it had come by courier instead of by regular post.  I thanked her and tossed it to the top of my other mail while I finished some notes on a patient's record.  "May have to nip off early," I told her.  "But I should be home in time for supper."

"That's fine."

I left the package untouched until it was time for me to make my early escape.  I have a bad habit of choosing quick, observant people as friends, and I knew if I'd opened the package as eagerly as I'd wanted, Mary would have asked what it was, and she would have known instantly that any unexpected trip I made must be related to it.  As it was, I often left the office a few minutes early, sometimes to buy treats for Mary, and sometimes just to have some time to myself.  This time would seem no different.

My letter awaited me in a completely different bank's deposit box this time.  I marveled, even though I should find it common enough, that Sherlock had been able to open yet another account in my name.

Like the first one, this letter was enclosed in an envelope, and marked with instructions to read when alone.  It was a bit trickier doing so when I was in a flat share with Mary now, but I managed it.  I stopped back at my office and locked myself into the private bathroom, then opened the note.  It read:

***

My Dearest John,

     If things go well over the next two weeks, then we will see each other soon after.  If not, then I give you my deepest apologies for getting your hopes up only to force you to grieve again.  I have good hopes, but I must acknowledge the possibility of failure, and so I ask your forgiveness in advance.

     When I return ((and here, I saw that he had a crossed out "if" and written "when")) I think it would be best not to let anyone know that you were aware I was alive.  It's up to you, but I think it would be better for your relationships if you're seen as completely innocent of deceit where I'm concerned.  (By the way, when are you going to ask her to marry you?  It's been ages!)

     I'd like to avoid the slow process of "sightings" and rumors and all, so if you'd like to help spread the word, maybe you could try being angry with me.  If we make it look good enough, word will be out within an hour of our meeting.  Also, could you do me a favor and make sure the flat's in order?  Ta.

Yours Ever,

S. H.

P.S.  The money in this account is for you.  Get her the big one.

***

I must have laughed for a full five minutes.  There were tears in my eyes at the same time, but his audacity was so... _audacious_ (I'm quite eloquent today) that at first I couldn't stop my laughter.  Leave it to Sherlock to know about Mary and how close we'd become.  I wondered if part of his homeless network had been watching me - sending reports that I'd been slowing down on walks to look at jewelry shop windows, and that I'd even dared to go inside and inquire about pricing.  I wondered how much money he'd put into the account.  I wondered if he were psychic,  and if that's how he'd known the ring I wanted to buy Mary was far out of my reach.

I also wondered if I would ever really see my friend again.  Sherlock was a completely confident, pragmatic person, and if he felt there was a possibility he might not succeed, then that possibility must certainly exist.  It couldn't be put down to nervousness, or an over active imagination.  The danger he faced was real, and I hoped and prayed that he would come through it safely.  I wouldn't have wished that he'd never contacted me, but mourning his death all over again would have crushed me, I know.  But of course, he survived the danger, and came back to me about a month later.

After destroying his letter, I sifted through my newspapers and magazines in the waiting room, and found something suitable from an ad for some ridiculous boxing match to be shown on cable.  I cut out the words I wanted and left them in the deposit box.  I requested the account balance and nearly passed out when the teller handed me the slip.  Twenty _thousand_ pounds!  Quite a wedding present.

I waited a bit before buying the ring, choosing the one I wanted very carefully.  Then it took me weeks after to work up the nerve to ask.  Before I could do so, though, I had one more duty to perform.  I'd avoided Sherlock's request to see that the flat was ready for a while.  Avoided seeing Mrs. Hudson again after this long absence.  But I felt I wanted to clear things with her and get on better terms again before I could move on with talking to Mary about marriage. 

It was odd, or maybe it seemed completely natural, but I looked on her almost like a mother.  Or maybe a mother-in-law (dare I say it?) since she was surely a mother figure to Sherlock.  I had no idea how I should approach her, so I simply walked up to the old place and knocked in the door.

It was difficult for both of us, especially when I had to continue to behave as though Sherlock was dead. Of course, I'd had no word from him in four weeks' time, so it could have been quite true.  I bore the brunt of her anger and made the best apology I could for my long absence.  She softened up after a while, and took me up to the old flat.

It was like walking into a museum, or a ruin.  Everything was as it had been the day Sherlock died, with the addition of about three centimeters of dust covering everything.  Mrs. Hudson moved about, chatting sadly and opening the dusty curtains.  I told her about Mary, and _yes_ , she was shocked at my marrying a woman.  I can't understand it, but I don't think anyone will be convinced that I'm straight until I get married.  Maybe not even then!

I left the flat after a short visit, having seen all I needed to see.  The place had been waiting for him, and he would be able to take possession in as long as it would take Mrs. Hudson to give it a thorough scrub.

The next evening was The Day.  The Day I'd chosen to ask Mary to spend her life with me.  I took her to a fancy restaurant and tried to make small talk for a while.  She got up to use the powder room, and I pulled out the box and looked at the beautiful ring Sherlock and I had gone half on.  (I saved the rest of his gift to help with the actual wedding expenses.)

I was aware of him the moment he entered the room, of course.  He's excellent with disguises, but he wasn't disguised when he first walked in.  A glance around the room (looking for Mary), and I saw him instantly, looking no different than he had two years before.  Tall and thin, his commanding posture completely unmistakable.  I wondered why no one else recognized him, but then, I was his closest friend.  From the corner of my eye, I saw him steal a tie and a serving tray, and I suppressed a laugh. 

Ecstatic as I was to see him alive, I decided to play a little prank on him myself.  He handed me a menu and asked what wine I would like in a ridiculous French accent.  I pretended not to know him, and told him to surprise me.  I almost lost it when he went off in a huff.

Mary came back shortly, and I tried to carry on with the evening and ask her to marry me, but I was too distracted by the knowledge that Sherlock must be about to come back any minute, and I could barely get the words out.

Then, he was back, and it was time for our act.  When I looked at his face, so near and so real, I was glad that I'd had some forewarning that he was in the restaurant. I might have thrown my arms around him and cried, even with that ridiculous fake mustache.  Even with the forewarning, I was staggered, and I let it show.  He made some silly remark about my mustache and I knew he was baiting me.  I recalled my last message to him. 

I felt some guilt about deceiving Mary, but I knew that Sherlock had been right and her trust in me might suffer if she thought all my grief for the last several months had been fake.  So I made the best show I could, pulling up all the hurt and fury I'd felt when he died, _and_ when he came back to life, and I let them all flow out as I hadn't allowed myself to do all the long and weary months since I'd first felt them.

The gaudy letters of my last message came back to me - bright red with yellow rings around the letters, jagged and rough, designed to draw the eye as quickly as possible to the garish advert for the boxing match.

\---

     ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE???

\---

I slammed my fists on the dining table, and everyone jumped.  With an hour, we'd been thrown out of two restaurants, and the news of Sherlock's return was out.  I maintained my anger for a full forty-eight hours (at Sherlock's request), during which time he revealed himself to our other friends, and gave Molly the gift of trailing around with him in full day of consultations, as a thank-you for helping him "die" and keeping his secret.

When the two days were up, I told Mary that I was going to talk things over with Sherlock in person, and went to our old flat to do just that.  I looked forward to finally being able to talk freely with him, and having a proper reunion.  Then, of course, there was the kidnapping, and me at the bottom of a bonfire, and... other stuff I don't care to revisit right now. 

I think I'll close by telling you that I did finally get that "proper" reunion with my friend.  It was after the bonfire, and before the subway, when I went back to Baker Street to "reconcile" with Sherlock, as I planned to do in the first place.

I sat in my armchair, and he sat in his.  "Well," he said.

"Well.  Thanks again.  For-"

"I know."  He glanced down, then smiled up at me.  "You're welcome, John."

"And for the ring," I said.  "And for telling me you were-"

"John!"  He seemed fairly alarmed, but I just smiled at him.

"For a conceited, arrogant dick, you certainly have a hard time accepting gratitude."

He laughed.  "Who said that one?"

"Who hasn't?"

He laughed again.  "Mrs. Hudson has gone shopping."

"Oh?"  He nodded, and we sat staring at one another for a moment.  Then we both stood at almost the same moment.  He opened his arms and I embraced him with unabashed warmth and affection.  I could feel tears starting when he squeezed me in his arms.  "Dammit," I whispered.  "I _missed_ you, you sod!"

"I'm sorry."

" _Don't_ do that to me again!"

I felt his chest move in a silent laugh.  "I'll certainly do my best never to be put in that position again."

"You bloody well better."

He laughed again, then let me go.  "Enough of this nonsense, we have work to do."

"What?"

"This!" he said, gesturing to his connection wall.  "The underground attack, the reason Mycroft insisted I come back immediately after I finished in Serbia."

"You _will_ have to tell me about that one day," I said, coming over and looking at the odd clippings and images attached to his wall. 

"Naturally, but later.  Come on, John, look at this and tell me what you think."

And just like that, we were off on a new adventure as if no time had passed at all.  Naturally, the "official" story of his return that I wrote for my blog was somewhat different.  Obviously, I kept the letters a secret.  I also kept our reunion a secret, and (with some suggestions from Sherlock, who apparently enjoys his "I am a complete dick" persona), I wrote a more dramatic version of our reconciliation in the rigged subway car.

Since then, we've gone on as we have before, but with Mary there to help, and to make excuses for me at the office when the unforeseen adventures take me away suddenly.  Everything between Sherlock and Lestrade and everyone else he owed apologies to has all been long sorted.  And despite the dangers I face helping Sherlock with his cases, I'm as happy as I've been in a long, long while.

 

~ J.H.W.~


End file.
